The Hangover - Minas Tirith Edition
by pizzamargherita
Summary: The Imrahilions and the Rohirrim hit the White City for Faramir's stag do. What could possibly go wrong? (My sincere apologies, Professor Tolkien!)
1. What on Yavanna's Green Earth Happened?

_I own neither Middle-earth nor The Hangover. Who would have guessed?_

* * *

It was a fine Tuesday morning in the Capital of the Reunited Realm. A gentle breeze was blowing – well, it was what Minas Tirith folk would call a gentle breeze. The sort of breeze that howled between the towers and tore viciously at the washing that a few early-rising Gondorian housewives had already hanged up on clotheslines going from window to window. Beneath the fluttering shifts and linens a maiden of fair complexion and foul mien was struggling up the cobbled street, clutching the shawl around her shoulders for dear life and cursing under her breath in a foreign tongue.

"What possessed me to come to this Béma-forsaken country?" she muttered, more to herself than to the other young lady following her cheerfully.

"Come now, dear, it's just a bit of wind," the latter pointed out, "and such a splendid, sunny day!" She brushed away a strand of her companion's hair that had just slapped her in the face.

Maiden number one gave her a scowl. "Don't get me started, Lothíriel. Not two days before my wedding and certainly not while my betrothed is missing." She marched on towards the Sixth Gate, where the two armoured guards snapped to attention under the Nazgûl slayer's murderous gaze. The ladies entered the Sixth Circle and directed their steps towards the house of Imrahil. They passed between the two delicate marble swans on either side of the door – at which Éowyn rolled her eyes – stepped into the entrance hall and were greeted by a maid who curtseyed before them.

"Any news of the Lord Steward?" Lothíriel asked quietly after she had convinced herself that no one else was listening in.

The old woman shook her head. "No, my lady, still no sign of him."

"What about…?" A jerk of her head towards the second corridor on the left was enough to make the servant understand.

"Unchanged, my lady." A shadow of horror crossed the woman's face.

The ladies exchanged a nod of silent agreement – there was no other way, it had to be done. They strode down the corridor, determined to execute Plan B with as much dignity as they could muster. Bracing themselves, they shared a last look of mutual reassurance, and Lothíriel pushed open the door to the morning drawing room.

"If they're still asleep, I swear I will…" Before the shieldmaiden could lay out her full plan of vengeance, the stench of alcohol mixed with the aroma of unwashed men engulfed them.

"Valar!" Lothíriel gasped, covering her mouth and nose with her shawl. She glanced around the darkened room and made out six figures sprawled over armchairs, the tea table and even her mother's outrageously expensive Umbarian carpet. She had to step over her eldest brother and the Marshal of the East-mark to get to the window. When she opened the shutters the light revealed the full extent of the misery. There lay the three Princes of Dol Amroth as well as the King of Rohan and two of his most distinguished warriors, snoring loudly, the traces of last night's exploits plainly visible on each of their sorry figures.

While Lothíriel knelt down beside the nearest of her siblings – namely Erchirion, draped over the tea table with his hair in the fruit bowl – and gently patted his arm, the shieldmaiden planted herself over her own brother dearest and gave him a loving kick in the shin.

"Béma's bollocks!" groaned the Lord of the Mark and sat up in his armchair. He gazed up at his sister, which was no mean feat, given that one of his eyes was swollen shut and glowing in various shades of purple and black. "What the…" He looked around the room, then back at Éowyn, and winced on touching his eye.

In the meantime Lothíriel had managed to wake two of her brothers, and the third one was stirring on the carpet because a bright sunbeam had fallen on his face.

"Lothíriel?" Amrothos mumbled. He stretched his arms, but stopped short on noticing that his tunic was missing whereas his shirt and breeches were soaking wet and his damp hair was clinging to his neck. "What on Yavanna's green earth happened?"

Erchirion was none the wiser. He stared down at his forearms and prodded his cheek – he was covered in scratches and very human-looking bite marks. "Ilúvatar have mercy," he whispered, "Hálwen is going to kill me!"

He glanced at his elder brother who was propping himself up on his elbows, looking down on himself – and let out a hoarse scream that turned into a coughing fit when he realised he was wearing a dress, complete with apron and bonnet. "Good gracious," he eventually said, "now that is… extraordinary!"

"That's one word for it," contributed Marshal Elfhelm, who seemed to be the only one without any obvious disfigurements.

Next to him Captain Éothain was still blissfully sawing logs, until the marshal punched him in the shoulder, making him jump straight to his feet while desecrating the name of Béma in at least four different colourful ways. He shook and tilted his head a few times before he figured out what was causing the unfamiliar sensation: His hair had been braided and his beard was sporting several blue beads. "Son of a…" He stopped on noticing the presence of the ladies.

Said ladies watched the spectacle with a mixture of amusement and contempt – and perhaps a pinch of sympathy, even though they would not have admitted it if their lives depended on it.

"Must have been quite the night," Éowyn noted dryly. "Now, would any of you care to tell us what you did to Faramir?"

"Faram-…?" Éothain repeated, looking around the room.

Lothíriel saved his clouded brain the trouble of working it out for himself. "He's missing. We've been looking for him all morning, and according to his housekeeper he didn't come home last night. Do you have any idea where he might be?"

The six men looked at each other in bewilderment. Finally Elphir voiced what all of them were thinking, "I do not even recall how I myself ended up in this predicament. My memory of last night is quite gone, I'm afraid."

"So is mine," said Marshal Elfhelm, and all the others nodded.

"I wish I was more surprised," Éowyn sighed and dropped into an armchair.

Meanwhile the King of Rohan had successfully opened both his eyes and asked, "Have you tried the royal quarters? The library? The barracks?"

"Believe it or not, brother, we have," Éowyn gave back.

Éomer laid a hand on her arm. "Calm yourself. Faramir is a grown man, he would not just vanish in his own city."

"Have you asked Father?" Erchirion stepped in. "If he orders a search party, they will sift through the entire place in a few hours…"

"So far we have preferred not to involve anyone else," Lothíriel clafiried. "We thought it best not to alarm Father, let alone King Elessar. Not before we have exhausted all possibilities – which is where you come in." She glanced around and was met with six clueless faces.

"Truly, I am at a complete loss," repeated Amrothos. "I do remember the beginning of the night. We went to the Two Serpents, had a bite to eat and a sip of wine…"

"More than a sip, I reckon," Éowyn chimed in.

"… but after that everything is rather blurred," Amrothos concluded.

His eldest brother added, "To have one's mind so compromised by wine alone – or even by the Rohirric ale these fine fellows brought along – I daresay there must be some other mischief afoot." The Lords of Dol Amroth shared a grave look.

"Then let's get to the bottom of it!" resolved the king. In a sudden fit of vitality he got on his feet, but unfortunately his vestibular organ was not as keen as he was. He staggered and bumped into a mildly baffled Éowyn. "Ugh, Béma's b-… beard," he mumbled and sat back down, rubbing his temples.

Lothíriel watched the display with an ever deepening frown. Eventually she determined that what this assortment of heroes needed was a bit of common sense and some of Aunt Ivriniel's famed "heavy head tonic". In her best commander-in-chief voice she chirped, "I'm afraid this won't do at all. My lords, all of you," she gestured at the whole miserable ensemble, "on your feet, and come along!" Without another word she marched out of the room.

* * *

About half an hour later the band of conspirators was assembled in the winter dining room. On the ladies' insistence everyone was now tolerably cleaned up, munching bread and cheese and sipping a greenish-brown concoction that the Princess of Dol Amroth, having grown up with three brothers in one of the realm's main wine regions, had perfected over the years.

"I must say, I'm feeling much more the thing now, aren't you?" Elphir asked almost cheerfully. Having his breeches back had clearly lifted his spirits.

"Yes, splendid indeed," grumbled Erchirion behind gritted teeth while his sister was dabbing honey on his mysterious bruises. "Thank you, dear, I think that'll do."

Éomer, who was pressing a generous piece of raw beef against his eye (a shameful waste of a perfectly good dinner, according to Lothíriel), laid out the battle plan. "If we want to find out what happened to us and find Faramir without letting anyone know, our best bet might be to trace back last night's events. Amrothos!" The prince lifted his head about an inch off the table. "You were in charge of the Quest. Do you…"

"The quest?" Éowyn interjected, which convinced Amrothos to lie back down.

Captain Éothain clarified, "Some silly Gondorian custom, my lady. They made the Lord Steward fulfil several tasks, one given by each of us, to prove himself worthy of you, or so they said." He shook his head as vigorously as the throbbing pain under his skull permitted.

"How ridiculous! Why would you do such a thing?" Éowyn exclaimed. "Why not just have a drinking contest, or a footrace, or a fistfight with my brother, as we would in the Mark… Oh!" A glance at Éomer already seemed to reveal part of the mystery.

The King of Rohan gave her an incredulous stare. "Are you suggesting Faramir did this to me? Faramir? Of all people?" He snorted at the outrageous assumption.

"And whyever not, my Lord King?" Lothíriel jumped to her cousin's defence. "Would a fine Gondorian warrior not be a match to you?"

Éomer made an honest effort to be civil but his headache got the better of him. "Sit down, Swan Princess, would you!" he snapped, rolling his eyes.

Lothíriel opened her mouth to protest, but closed it again on realising that all three of her brothers and Éowyn had already proceeded to shout at the king, whereas Éothain had taken his lord's side. She exchanged a look of silent suffering with Marshal Elfhelm. One way or another, this was going to be a long day.

* * *

 _To be continued..._


	2. I Might Call Firefoot a Minstrel

After another cup of Lothíriel's wondrous elixir, the six swashbucklers gathered the evidence of their misfortunes, namely Éothain's blue beads and Elphir's bonnet, and set out in search of truth and vengeance. And Faramir, of course.

As Amrothos had pointed out, they did recall starting their adventure at the Two Serpents, the home of – in the innkeeper's own words – the finest grape and the fairest verse below the Citadel. The band of battered heroes braved the storm all the way to the Fourth Circle, and wherever they set foot the good citizens of Minas Tirith eyed them with equal parts of wonder and scorn.

Halfway down the Fourth Circle high street, between a basket weaver's shop and a bakery, a wooden sign showing two snakes, a glass of wine and a quill welcomed them to the tavern. "A poets' den?" Éowyn asked with a pitiful gaze at her brother and his captain. "I hope to Béma you two kept your mouths shut."

"So do I," mumbled Éomer and added, "leave it to Faramir to find a dull place even in this madhouse of a city."

Éowyn only grinned and nudged her brother in the ribs, but Elphir would not stand for any such slight. "My Northern friend, the Two Serpents are renowned not only for their weekly poetry readings but also for their excellent choice of Gondorian and Dorwinion wines," he declared. "I remember spending many a pleasant evening here, back in my cadet days." A hazy smile crossed his face. It took Éomer a moment to understand that this was in fact meant to improve his opinion of the place.

They found the emerald green window shutters closed and the door locked. Apparently neither the literati nor the oenophiles of Minas Tirith were up at such an unholy hour. Éowyn grabbed the polished brass doorknocker shaped like two intertwined snakes and made sure every living being in a one mile radius became aware of their presence. Even the basket weaver next door stuck his head out of his window but one peek at the strange company convinced him it was none of his business and he promptly disappeared again.

"Get thee gone!" came a muffled growl from inside the tavern. "We're closed!" Éowyn, however, would not be deterred and continued working the doorknocker with all the might of the House of Eorl.

"By Daeron's lyre, quit pounding on my bloody door, you thrice-accursed madman!" the voice was heard again. "I've paid my license, if that's what you're after, and if it's about the cockroaches, that was a one-off incident and has been duly dealt with." At that a collective wince went through the offspring of Imrahil.

The shieldmaiden only rolled her eyes and was just about to mishandle the brass snakes for the third time when she could at last hear footsteps shuffling towards the door. The lock clicked and the sharp smell of soap suds and floor wax emerged through the door crack, along with a rather disgruntled face.

"Alright, here I am! I swear, no living man in his right mind goes to a tavern at this hour."

Éowyn raised her eyebrows. "No living man am I!" she clarified, musing on how many occasions she had uttered these words and what that might imply about her life choices. "You look upon Éowyn Éomundsdaughter of the Riddermark. Would you kindly allow us to speak to you?"

The innkeeper assessed Éowyn and her entourage for a few seconds before he nodded begrudgingly and waved them inside with the dirty rag he was holding. "Beg your pardon, my lady." He dropped the rag in a bucket on the floor and his eyes traced the footprints they were leaving on his freshly waxed floorboards before he observed, "Long night, eh? My my, you look like you've just come from the Pelennor."

Erchirion eyed the innkeeper icily. "I daresay we looked rather worse that day," he replied in a voice that could have cut through Orc flesh, "and if you, my dear fellow, had fought on the Pelennor, you would not say such things." Both Éomer and Éothain took in a sharp breath, whereas Lothíriel and Amrothos only exchanged a knowing nod. It was a rule well-established in Imrahil's household never to cross Erchirion on a post-merrymaking morning.

"Let us not lose ourselves in chit-chat," Elphir quickly weighed in. "We are sorry to intrude, Thalador, but as you might recall, we came to your fine establishment last night, with the Lord Steward, and I'm afraid we… Well, would you mind awfully to recount whatever you remember of our sojourn?"

Thalador quirked an eyebrow, fighting hard to suppress a smirk. "Very well," he conceded, "I shall do my best. Would you like to take a seat – and perhaps a cup of camomile?" He gestured at the tables, the grin clearly gaining the upper hand.

"The story will do alright," Marshal Elfhelm growled on behalf of the whole party and dropped into the nearest chair. The others followed his example all too gladly.

"As you wish," began the innkeeper. "Well, your party arrived about an hour before dusk…"

* * *

THE NIGHT BEFORE

"Ah, the Two Serpents," exclaimed Elphir, "an excellent choice, cousin!"

Faramir inclined his head. "Glad you agree. I thought we might all enjoy a good drop and some roast mutton before I throw myself into whatever mischief your devious minds may have thought up."

As if on cue, the innkeeper came over with seven cups and a jug of wine, followed by a boy carrying a large plate of sliced meat and bread. "3016 Belfalas Red," Thalador commented and filled the cups, "a superb vintage worthy of the occasion. My Lord Steward, in the name of the Two Serpents I will take the liberty to congratulate you on your upcoming nuptials."

"Thank you, it is much appreciated," Faramir answered. When the innkeeper and his aide had taken their leave, he raised his glass to his friends. "Here's to good health and pleasant company!"

"And to your marital bliss, old chap," Amrothos chimed in. "May it last longer than this drink!" He downed his cup in one gulp. Both his brothers cringed, but Faramir only laughed and took a generous sip himself.

"Béma! What is this supposed to be?" Éothain blurted and eyed the contents of his cup warily.

"As the good man said, 3016 Belfalas Red," Erchirion repeated. "The finest produce of our homeland, and I could not agree more that it is indeed a sublime grape." He lifted his cup and inhaled the wine's fragrance with abandon.

Éothain gaped at him as if the Gondorian had lost his mind, then he threw a side glance at Éomer. "It might just be me but…"

"It's not you," the king interrupted him. "Faramir, brother by marriage or not, I have to tell you that this," he nodded scornfully at the jug, "is vile. It tastes like vinegar!" Éothain nodded fervently, whereas Elfhelm only pushed his cup as far away as possible.

The sons of Imrahil stared at the Rohirrim in horror until Erchirion let his head sink and sighed, "Nienna weeps for the House of Eorl."

"Vinegar?" mouthed Elphir, as if to make sure he had heard correctly. "But can you not taste the subtle aroma of sea-buckthorn and the hint of red berries behind a delicate veil of mushrooms and…?"

Elfhelm leaned over to Éothain and mumbled in Rohirric, "I don't know what kind of mushrooms grow in Dol Amroth but I think he's had one too many." The captain chuckled.

"It certainly is an acquired taste," Faramir interjected, ever the diplomat but with a glint of amusement in his eyes. "I apologise for submitting you to such atrocities. Would you prefer a different wine?"

"Oh no, don't trouble yourself," Éomer replied a bit too quickly. With a nod at his countrymen he added, "I think it's time to introduce my soon-to-be Gondorian kin to a proper Rohirric drink." At that Elfhelm and Éothain reached for two enormous ale skins they had brought. "Now this," the king pointed out while opening one, "is the finest brew in the Mark." He poured the remaining wine from his cup back into the jug – much to Elphir's dismay – and filled it with ale instead.

Éothain opened the other flask and smelled it. "And this here is a taste of Sigerun's famous mead. I'm telling you, when it comes to making a decent, strong drink, Elfhelm's lady wife is Béma's gift to all of mankind," he revelled, bowing his head to the marshal.

The sons of Imrahil decided unanimously that the honour of trying the foreign drinks first should belong to the Lord Steward. After some thorough sniffing, twirling, slurping and juggling the most pretentious wine vernacular he could utter with a straight face, he gave his verdict, "Not bad, but no match to a good Belfalas grape!"

"What?" shouted all three Rohirrim at once. For a moment the crowded tavern room fell dead silent and the other patrons turned their heads to examine the yellow-haired, bearded barbarians and their feral war cry.

"Forgive us," Faramir said quickly, "do continue."

What exactly there was to continue became apparent a moment later when a middle-aged man in a slightly too colourful tunic got up from his table and made his way to the centre of the room, a parchment in his hand. Chairs shuffled, heads turned, and a few encouraging whistles were heard.

"Oh, of course, it's the poetry contest," Amrothos remembered. "This is going to be jolly good fun!" He poured himself another cup. The Rohirrim glanced at each other, and in silent agreement they followed his example.

The poet cleared his throat, threw back his hair and began in a low, mournful voice,

"The night was young,

The stars shone bright,

And swiftly as a shadow

The rabbit sprang

Into the light

And over stone and meadow."

"What in Béma's name is that?" Éothain asked for the second time that evening. "Who rhymes about bloody rabbits? Stew and mittens, that's what rabbits are for." To his surprise, given that he knew nothing about Gondorian poetry and the drivel might as well have been the height of refinement, he noticed that the sons of Imrahil were also watching the poet with increasing displeasure, whereas Faramir was intently stuffing his face with roast mutton.

"But, oh, the hound

With dreadful teeth

And claws as sharp as steel,

Without a sound –

The horrid beast! –

The rabbit he did kill."

By that point Faramir was pinching the bridge of his nose in obvious agony, and the first boos and other more imaginative expletives were hurled at the artist, so Éomer thought it safe to comment, "If this is poetry, I might call Firefoot a minstrel."

"It's atrocious," whispered Elphir, and Erchirion pleaded, "If he has another verse, someone be so kind as to push me into the Timeless Void, would you?"

Fortunately for everyone, the failed bard got the hint and sat down again. The next one, a boy of about sixteen summers, sporting the first scarce shade of a beard and nearly bubbling over with poetic passion, presented an oeuvre about the delights of wine, probably inspired by the four Hobbits' drinking songs that had been strangely fashionable in Minas Tirith for a few months. He received decent applause from the general crowd and some loud cheers from his friends.

When the third virtuoso was just getting ready, Amrothos suddenly sat bolt upright in his chair and announced, "I have an idea!"

"Great Ilúvatar have mercy," came the prompt response from Erchirion.

Amrothos only grinned and said with a devilish glance at Faramir, "I think it's high time for the Quest to begin, wouldn't you agree? So, here goes my task for you, cousin: To prove yourself worthy of a maiden so sharp and witty as the White Lady of Rohan, I hereby challenge you to dedicate a poem to your betrothed!"

"What?" was Faramir's less than eloquent but all the more honest reaction. "You want me to get up there and wax lyrical about Éowyn?"

Amrothos nodded vigorously, and the others seemed to warm up to the idea as well, judging by the twitch around Erchirion's mouth and Éothain's fist slamming on the table.

"You must be out of your minds," Faramir objected, "I'm the steward of this realm, I cannot make a fool of myself in this manner."

"No backing down from the Quest," Elphir laid down the rules. "Besides, I remember you writing poetry all the time when we were younger, and it received accolades in this very tavern."

"That was before the war, things were… different," Faramir gave back. "Look, this is a folly, I really can't…" His protest might have seemed genuine to a stranger, but to those who had known the son of Denethor for long it was obvious that he was tempted.

His cousins would not yield, so eventually Faramir let out a deep sigh and pointed his finger at each of them in a row. "You people will be the death of me. Now pour me another cup of wine and shut your mouths for a while, I need to think of a lay worthy of this illustrious audience."

When two more self-proclaimed lyricists had left the stage, Faramir took a deep breath, emptied his cup and got up. Éomer found the time to grab his arm and hiss in his ear, "You better keep this poem as clean as fresh snow… brother!"

Faramir bowed his head in ironic reverence. "Rest assured your sister's reputation is in safe hands."

Suddenly all the chatter and clatter fell silent. At first the crowd did not know whether to cheer or not, but when the steward directed his steps to the improvised stage a few shy claps and whistles emerged. He planted himself in front of the audience, shot a last half-serious glare at his band of scoundrels, and began to speak.

That was the point where Éomer's jaw almost dropped, Éothain let out a triumphant laugh and Elfhelm leaned back in his chair with a look of deep satisfaction. The sons of Imrahil, however, could only be described as mildly puzzled.

"Is that… Rohirric?" asked Amrothos, and his oldest brother nodded, "Must be."

"Indeed it is," purred the king, "it's the Saga of the Maiden of the Green Hill. Every child in the Mark knows it."

"Typical!" laughed Erchirion, shaking his head. "My friends, in honour of this memorable moment, I think I'll try some of your ale. Maybe it'll help me understand what my cousin is saying."

When Faramir had finished his rendition, he was met with five dozen clueless faces. The room stayed silent for another second or two, but then the Rohirrim erupted in cheers, and even though no one besides them had understood a word, the crowd eventually joined in.

Faramir came back to his table and put his hand on Éomer's shoulder. "Well – brother – will that do?"

The Lord of the Mark smirked. "What, the greatest love story ever sung in the language of the Eorlingas? I suppose it will. Your accent needs work though, it's not… guttural enough." That statement earned him a nudge from his captain.

"Now that was easy," Faramir stated. "Does anyone else have a task for me?"

"Don't get cocky, cousin!" Amrothos warned. "Just because I went with something you're good at doesn't mean the others will. How about…" he scanned his companions until his eyes came to rest on the marshal, "our friend Elfhelm goes next?"

The Rohir's facial expression would have sent any Orc running for the hills. He breathed deeply in and out, then he grumbled, "Frankly, I don't give a donkey's balls about your tasks. I'm only here to make sure these two rascals don't cause a diplomatic incident." The jerk of his head directed at his liege lord and the captain did not go unnoticed. "Twenty years past I could give them a beating when they got up to any nonsense, but I can't do that anymore, can I? So here I am, playing chaperone, but I'm not sending this poor fellow on any daft quests." He downed another cup of ale just to make sure everyone had understood that he was utterly through with the matter.

"Well then," Amrothos tried again carefully after an awkward pause, "what about you, Erchirion? Would you like to go next?"

"Certainly," his brother replied, side-eyeing the marshal warily, "but for my task we will have to leave this fine establishment and descend to the Second Circle."

Elphir frowned. "It has nothing to do with the whorehouse, does it?" His voice sounded more tired than anything else. The Rohirrim thought it wisest not to ask.

"Indeed it has not," Erchirion answered without flinching. "I was merely going to suggest that there are wandering folk from Near Harad in town, and I'd like to challenge our cousin to some… cultural exchange."

"That sounds tempting enough," Faramir determined. "Anyone for another sip of wine? No? Then give me a moment to pay our good man Thalador and I'll be with you in no time."

* * *

"That's all I can tell you," the innkeeper concluded his tale. "The Lord Steward mentioned you were going to the Second Circle market to see the travelling folk – and if you don't mind me saying so, I think that's where your night must have gone awry. You can't be careful enough around strangers these days."

Elphir nodded and said to Thalador, "Thank you, old chap, that was very helpful indeed. And sorry about the intrusion." He peeled himself out of his chair by sheer willpower and signalled the rest of the company that it was time to leave.

On the way out Éowyn took Lothíriel by the arm and whispered, "I am in no way reassured about Faramir's fate, quite the opposite, but at least I know he hasn't deserted me on purpose. The Saga of the Maiden of the Green Hill is a pain to learn."

Lothíriel nodded gravely. "Oh, you have no idea! If you're lucky, he'll recite the entire Lay of Leithian to you in your wedding night. Four thousand two hundred verses." The look of horror on her friend's face made her giggle.

Elphir, however, stopped halfway to the door and turned back. "Thalador, one more thing: Do you happen to recall what I was wearing last night?"

"Beg your pardon, my lord?" the innkeeper asked and tilted his head. He never paid quite that much attention to his patrons.

"I mean," Elphir clarified, leaning in closer, "was I wearing breeches?"

The bewilderment was plainly visible on poor Thalador's face. "I, uhm… I should certainly hope so, my lord," he stumbled, before Erchirion saved him by grabbing his brother's shoulder and shoving him unceremoniously out the door.

* * *

 _A/N: This one doesn't reveal too much of the mystery yet, but have patience, my friends, the time will come :) The next one will have more action and less horrendous poetry, I promise._


End file.
